


Making a Splash

by Neffectual



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8721826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: Tyler Breeze is sick of waiting around for his chance on the main roster. But he knows a guy who made his own way up there - Roman Reigns - and he'll do anything Roman wants if he'll help him climb that ladder.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Duckay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckay/gifts).



> This started as a joke about me writing Duckay something for Christmas that they wouldn't want to read. I'm not sure I accomplished that.

Tyler’s done modelling, so he knows what the casting couch is all about. He’s not ashamed to say he’s sucked a few dicks to get where he is. Eaten some pussy, too, but that’s somehow seen as less scandalous, for whatever homophobic reasons that those with small minds can dream up. He’s not opposed to doing what he needs in order to get ahead, but in WWE, he just can’t seem to work out whose dick he’s meant to suck to get onto the main roster. NXT is fine, sure, but after a little stint with the tag titles, before they let him use his real name, he’s not had anything approaching a title run, and it’s starting to rankle. After all, he’s the prettiest, and the hottest, and clearly the best in the company – he just needs someone to give him a chance.

So when he starts to see a pattern of who’s popular on the main roster, he decides to use his phone for a call, for the first time in a while, and ends up leaving a voicemail that sounds as smooth and polished as his nails. He waits. No one’s capable of getting a message like that and not responding to it, he’s certain, but when a week goes by, he’s starting to worry that he’s going to get a permanent wrinkle between his eyes from glaring at his stubbornly silent phone. Well, silent from any communication from his way in, anyway. Obviously, Tyler’s phone is never silent for long.

Finally, there’s a text, a few short words -  a place, a time, and a date, along with a message that makes Tyler’s chest tighten in what he absolutely refuses to call nerves.

_The boys want to meet you._

 

* * *

 

When Tyler thought about backstage on the main roster, he has to admit that he didn’t think it would be like this. There’s a lot of dusty boxes, deserted corridors, and a smell like sweaty gym socks that makes him wrinkle his nose for real, rather than in the affected way he tends to use when he has to talk to some complete uggo at the performance center. When he arrives, it’s not like that, there’s lots of people, and production teams, and all the fuss he expects, but once he starts following the directions he’s been given, the noise drains away, and he’s left listening to his own footsteps echo through the gloom.

“Honestly, can’t they afford to light this place?” he fusses, using the light from him phone to cut through the half-darkness. “You’d think, if you make millions, you could manage to keep the power on.”

“We prefer the dark,” a voice says, from his left, and Tyler nearly jumps out of his skin, before he realises who it is. “Hello, Tyler.”

“Roman,” Tyler says, gratefully, as his heart tries to stop beating rabbit-fast. He controls his breathing, before looking up at the other man, as winsomely as possible, sliding his phone back into a pocket. “You called, and I came.”

Roman smirks at his phrasing, and Tyler’s thankful that it’s probably too dark to see the slight flush on his face. He’s not that much younger than Roman, but something about the man always makes him feel like he’s been caught misbehaving. Then again, Roman’s rather fond of Tyler when he’s misbehaving – or at least, he used to be.

“That’s how I like you,” Roman agrees, easily. “You remember how good you used to be for me?”

Flashes of memory fly through Tyler’s mind, a night laid out over the tag titles, Roman fucking him mercilessly, pulling out to come on his face, all the while talking about how pretty he was like this, a mess, hair askew and face smeared with semen, mouth open and wet and desperate, how good he looked when he was begging to be allowed to come.

“I remember,” he says, instead of anything else, and takes a step closer, close enough that he can smell Roman over the neglect of the corridor they’re in. He smells like ozone and cypress, like he’s been in the woods in a thunderstorm, and Tyler can’t help but take a bigger breath of it. It helps with the memories, too, another sense, remembering the scent of Roman’s skin against him. He drops to his knees, heedless of the dust on his thousand dollar mink-trim pants, and fumbles with the fly on Roman’s ridiculous-looking combat pants before Roman grabs his wrists.

“Now, now, there’s time for that,” Roman says, slow and unhurried, and Tyler thinks that power suits him, being part of a group where he’s the biggest of three makes him seem broader, somehow, taller, stronger, and more commanding. It makes Tyler’s mouth water as he goes limp in Roman’s grip. “But remember what I told you?”

Tyler doesn’t, for a moment, too concerned with how tantalisingly close his mouth is to Roman’s dick, moves his head a little and nuzzles the bigger man’s hip, all he can reach, before he’s gently slapped, barely a sting to it, bringing him to focus.

“Tyler, I asked you a question. You said you’d be good.” Actually, Tyler thinks, he said no such thing, just that he remembered being good for Roman, but he’s fairly certain that this isn’t the time to talk semantics. “Do you remember what I told you?”

“Your boys want to meet me,” he says, softly, although he’s scornfully thinking that, frankly, they had ample time to meet him in NXT if they were that bothered, although Dean Ambrose wasn’t around much. Seth Rollins had never given him the time of day, but though Tyler might be as blonde as it’s possible to be with a good salon and expensive peroxides, he’s not even half as stupid as he looks. Talking about this now would be a mistake; these are Roman’s new teammates, he even tags with Rollins, and badmouthing them is unlikely to get him the leg up onto the main roster than he wants. “Do they really?”

“Of course they do,” Roman purrs, voice rumbling like an early warning to a thunderstorm. “I’ve told them all about you. They’re looking forward to seeing how good you can be – we spend a lot of time away from the rest of the roster, as you can see, so there aren’t a lot of opportunities to let off steam, aside from with each other.”

That’s a picture Tyler wouldn’t mind seeing. Sure, Rollins might have snubbed him, but he’s got an incredible ass, and Ambrose looks like the type who’d pull your hair while he fucked your mouth. And Roman, glorious Roman – Tyler wants to know how they all fit together, who gets fucked, who calls the shots, wants to be in the room as they cement their team bond with frantic thrusts and muffled groans.

“You want me to be good for them?” he asks, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment, so Roman can tell he’s enjoying the thought.

“As good as you can,” Roman says, letting Tyler’s wrists go, and tangling a hand into his hair, mussing his ponytail. Tyler allows it, because he’s being good, and that means doing what Roman wants, slipping into that headspace where what Roman wants is the most important thing in the world, and being good is everything. “Come on. I’ll take you to see them.”

 

* * *

 

The locker room Roman walks Tyler to is cool, but well-lit, the usual assortment of lockers and low benches, with a shower room off to one side. Ambrose is slouched on one of the benches, one foot on it, the other on the floor, leaving his legs open in what looks like a lewd invitation. Rollins is bent over with his hands against the wall, lunging, doing pre-match stretches as Ambrose looks on like Caligula enjoying some entertainment. They both look up when Roman and Tyler walk in.

“Boys, you remember Tyler,” Roman says, making eye contact with both of them in turn. “Tyler, this is Dean, and this is Seth.”

“A pleasure,” Tyler purrs, and is gratified to see Rollins – Seth – give him a once-over that lingers slightly too long to be polite. Ambrose – Dean – doesn’t bother with subtlety, leering at Tyler in a way that is almost uncomfortable, before hefting his dick in his pants. Roman chuckles.

“Roman said you wanna come up to the main roster,” Seth says, and Tyler turns all of his attention to him. He’s smaller than the other two, built lighter, and the bleached streak in his darkest-brown hair could do with some serious maintenance. The trimmed beard he’s sporting is just the right length that Tyler knows he’s going to get beard burn all over him, and shivers slightly at the thought. The pants they all wear look great, but the turtleneck doesn’t do Seth any favours, his thick neck making him look a little like a thumb someone’s drawn a face on, from the wrong angle. “I like ambition, I remember what it feels like to be sick of waiting around, waiting for the call. Part of the reason why we made our own call.”

“I’m in ‘cause Roman told me you were up for weird shit,” Dean says, idly, and Tyler switches his focus. For all that he’s broader in the shoulders than Seth, the stupid turtleneck is baggy around his waist, clearly concealing a narrower point. Tyler should give Roman the name of his tailor, he thinks, because there’s no reason to hide something like that. Dean’s hair is a fluff of curl, somewhere between red and blonde, with some brown thrown in there, a colour no salon could ever replicate. He reminds Tyler of a tabby cat, a skinny, underfed thing you might find in an alley, but with the same lazy indolence that all cats have, whether they’re pampered pets or starving. He looks almost dangerous, and Tyler can feel that thrill through him. “Nuff said.”

 Tyler doesn’t deny Dean’s claim – it would be pointless to do so, because Roman’s right there, and anyway, it’s a little counterintuitive to assure some guys he wants to do kinky shit with that he’s not into it. He licks his lips, mouth suddenly dry as Dean rises from the bench and stalks towards him. Roman is a hot pressure at his back, and Dean crowds in close.

“I remembered you being pretty, but not this pretty,” he rasps, voice like three-day-old smoke, all gravel and promise. “Bet you’d look even prettier on your knees.”

Tyler quirks an eyebrow.

“Use that line a lot, do you?” he asks, and watches as Dean grins.

“Pretty and stubborn – oh, Ro, do you know how to pick ‘em, man.”

Seth steps closer from where he’s been leaning against the wall, and Tyler realises that he’s been surrounded. They should look ridiculous, their matching uniforms, all in black, but when they’re all together, and this close, it almost works, Tyler almost feels like they’re menacing him. He doesn’t realise he’s taken a step backwards until he’s back against Roman, who nuzzles his shoulder with a rumble of sound that makes Tyler’s knees go weak.

“I want his mouth first,” Seth says, palming himself through his ridiculous pants, which do nothing to conceal how hard he is. Tyler, of course, has never done anything so undignified as whimper, so the sound he makes has to pass undocumented, but it makes Seth laugh, a sharp cackle of a sound that’s ugly, and raw, and shouldn’t make Tyler want to hear it again. “Yeah, gonna be such a good boy for us.”

“Team bonding exercise,” Dean mutters, which makes Seth and Roman chuckle, for some reason. Tyler doesn’t ask, just pushes himself away from Roman, and drops to his knees in front of Seth, looking up with wide blue eyes in a way that’s calculated to make people want to debauch him.

“Fuck,” Seth hisses, and Tyler sees Dean and Roman exchange a look, like they’re passing a private joke between them. “Yeah, Dean, you were right. That’s fucking pretty.”

Tyler resists the urge to preen at this, because the concrete is hard under his knees, and he can only hold the watery, innocent stare for so long before it starts to hurt his eyes, and it’s at its most powerful when he’s actually sucking dick, so he wants to save some of his energy for then.

“Wait,” Roman says, and Seth’s hand pauses on the fly of his pants, “I know something even prettier than this.”

Tyler’s expression very carefully doesn’t change, he knows it doesn’t, so he’s got no idea why Dean looks him dead in the eye and makes a sound of almost surprised delight.

“Ro, Ro, you didn’t tell me you had a pretty little thing like this all wrapped up in the kinda sick filth you’re into,” he crows, with obvious pleasure. Seth looks confused, like he hasn’t understood, but Tyler knows exactly what Roman wants. He always has, it’s why they worked so well together as a tag team.

“Roman, these pants are mink,” he says, bluntly, twisting a little on his knees so he can look at Roman properly. “Either they come off, or you owe me a new pair.” They’re not fully mink, obviously, just a toned-down version of his ring gear pants, sleek mink from knee to ankle, soft cream stretch denim for the rest. And they were expensive. The shirt, he’ll accept as a loss, it was only a few hundred dollars, and it’s replaceable, but mink is… well, mink is sacred.

“New pair,” Roman murmurs, and it’s a done that brooks no argument, for all that his tone is soft. Tyler’s never been able to deny that voice, never been able to say no when Roman wants something. He wrinkles his nose, and pulls his phone out of his pocket, handing it to Roman, who makes it disappear somewhere on his person. Tyler takes a deep breath, looks back up at Seth, and spreads his knees as far as he can in that position, offering up a prayer to the fashion gods that they’ll forgive him.

When the sound of liquid pattering on the floor is audible, Seth looks down from Tyler’s face to the spreading wet patch at his crotch.

“Oh,” he says, and he looks like all the air has just been punched out of him as Tyler feels the clinging stickiness of his pants as he soaks them, the way his dick twitches at being watched like this, the puddle on the hard ground soaking his knees even as piss pours along the back of his thighs and onto his ankles. “Oh, fuck.”

“So fucking good,” Dean croaks out, one hand in his pants, rubbing at himself. Roman just steps forwards, to the edge of the puddle Tyler’s kneeling in, and slides a hand into his hair, tugging his hair tie out and letting his blond locks spill free, just as the last spurts of Tyler’s urine spill out of him.

“That’s our pretty boy,” Roman purrs, and Tyler leans into his hand, flush high on his cheeks despite himself, and wonders what else the night has in store for him.


End file.
